


The rhythm of intimacy

by comeaftermejackrobinson



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeaftermejackrobinson/pseuds/comeaftermejackrobinson
Summary: She knows that if he decides to go after her, then that will be it. She'll tease no more. She wonders if he will, hopes that he will, and lays awake at night trying to imagine what he'll sound like when she finally has him underneath her, humming his pleasure in her ears.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissingMissFisher (bokchoynomad)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokchoynomad/gifts).



> This little two part story is my birthday present for the lovely @MissingMissFisher. She is always encouraging me to write more, has been since the beginning, and she listens to my ideas patiently. (She also listens to a lot of things that go on in my life that aren't exactly ideas for fanfiction.)
> 
> I am so happy to have met her! And so very thankful as well. This is a little something I wrote for her, since we live too far away and I can't give her a real present. I hope you all enjoy it.

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

  


She knows how he takes his tea and how he likes his coffee, and she knows when he favors one over the other. She's never made him a cup of either of those beverages herself, but she could if she had to, and she knows without a doubt that it'd be perfect.

She thinks she could guess correctly every title lined up on his bookshelves although she's never seen them. She's never set foot in his home. She has driven all the way there in her Hispano-Suiza once or twice, but she never dared show up at his door, out of the blue and unannounced. She knows he is a private person, and that if he wished for her to see the inside of his home he would invite her. She hopes that some day he will, and she imagines herself playing pretend and asking for directions to hide the fact that she knows where he lives and that one night (not long ago) she actually spent ten minutes parked a block away from, debating whether paying him a surprise visit was a good idea or not. With any other man, she would have dared. But he isn't any man. He's her detective inspector. She would never push him that far out of his zone of comfort. (She does spend an awful lot of time dreaming of pushing him on her bed, though.)

He played the piano for her once, and they sang along to the music. She's been lover to plenty of musicians, and they all have played for her. They have all played her body like they would have an instrument, striking all the rights chords until she came alive under their touch, because of their touch. She wonders what melody Jack would play out of her, how it would sound like. How she would sound like. It's a song she's never listened to and yet it makes her melancholic and she can't get it out of her head. (She wonders how he'd sound like if she were to play him like a musician plays an instrument, wonders if she'd be able to make a symphony out of him.)

She knows he's in love with her. He's never told her. But she knows. He's shown her. Many men have confessed their love for her, and all of them were turned down with grace and elegance. She's not sure any of them ever showed her they meant it. Jack does. He doesn't talk about it, he doesn't make promises, but he shows her. The things that he does do, big or small, are louder than the words he doesn't dare say. So she knows of his love for her, of course. It thrills her, it terrifies her, it even throws her off balance sometimes. (His love and the memory of her sister are the most constant things she's ever had.)

She knows where he hurts, where his wounds are, and how they came to be. She knows about his weaknesses, knows she's one of them- the greatest of them all, perhaps. She doesn't know if she's comfortable with having that much power over him. She wouldn't want to crush him, wouldn't forget herself if she ever destroyed him. But she's not sure it's anything she can control. (She's not sure it's something he can control, either. And she doesn't want to know if he would in case he could.)

She takes pride in reading him as easily as she can read a book. They communicate very well with their body language, and they have entire conversations with their eyes. She's not sure she's ever been so compatible with anyone before, and yet he thinks they're not very compatible because she constantly seeks out lovers for fun and pleasure and he seeks no one because he only wants to be with the woman he loves. (But he doesn't seek her out, either, because he's scared he won't be enough).

He thinks she's reckless, frustrating, outrageous and infuriating. He finds her mad but also exquisite. And his mind and hers fit so well, and somehow lately only thoughts of him run through her head. She appreciates Dot and Hugh very much, appreciates all of their help, but she knows Jack is the only one she wants to be partners with. No one else would do. She can work with the others, she definitely enjoys doing so, but he's the only one that can call himself her partner.

She knows that if he decides to go after her, then that will be it. She'll tease no more. She wonders if he will, hopes that he will, and lays awake at night trying to imagine what he'll sound like when she finally has him underneath her, humming his pleasure in her ears.

She has finally admitted to herself that she is in love with him.

He's the person she's shared the most intimacy with. And they haven't been physically intimate yet. Not even once.


	2. Chapter 2

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

 

Jane Austen

 

She picks him up from the docks the day he arrives in London, drives them to her penthouse, and makes him a cup of tea. She puts on the kettle, and he tells her stories about his journey while they wait for the water to boil. The tea is perfect, just the way he likes it. It warms his heart that she knows how he prefers his tea. It makes him happy. She makes him happy.

The emotional intimacy they have shared almost from the beginning flows beautifully between them until it becomes physical. They make love, and he feels complete. He feels at home. He confirms what he's suspected all along: his home is wherever she is. He felt homesick that morning at the airfield, even though she was the one flying away and he was the one staying behind. She took his home in her heart with her when she left Australia. She made him feel at home the moment they saw each other again two months later.

One night when they're in bed, she asks him to play the piano for her. She doesn't have a piano in London, he reminds her. She tells him to get creative. He moves his fingers all along her spine, pretending that she is the piano and that each vertebrae is a key. She moans and hums, and it sounds wonderful. It's the first melody he's ever composed. He doesn't think he would have done so well with a proper piano. (He likes playing her better, anyway.)

He is in love with her. He shows her. It's always shown. But one day he tells her. He lets it slip, he doesn't even think about it. The words just leave his mouth, it just happens. She doesn't look surprised, and this doesn't surprise him because he's aware that she's known of his adoration for her for quite some time now. He's always shown her. They've always communicated well just with their eyes, their facial expressions, their touch. She's known all along, he thinks. He's been telling her those words all along, over and over again. (It does surprise him that she says them back to him immediately. No hesitation, no delay. Now that he thinks about it, she's been showing him, telling him, for a long time as well. He shouldn't have been so surprised.)

He invites her over for dinner at his home when they go back to Melbourne. She goes over the contents of his bookshelves, a knowingly smile on her face. She tells her she feels like she's been here many times before, that this doesn't feel like the first time at all. He kisses her on the forehead and doesn't say anything. She seems happy there, with him, among his things. He lets her go through every closet, every drawer. He answers every question she asks, shares with her every story that comes to mind. Later, when they make love, she tells him he is her home, too.

He begins to suspect that he's one of the few people that know her inside out. He's been with her through some of the best and worst experiences of her life, and he's heard about all the adventures- good and bad- she's had before they met. He always listens, he always learns new things. She lets him discover her, helps him discover her, and every little thing he finds only makes him fall deeper in love with her. She trusts him with her heart, and with her life, and with everything she is. Trust is, for them, another form of intimacy altogether. It is one form he enjoys greatly, and he couldn't be more thankful for experiencing it with this woman. She shows him some of her wounds, he stumbles upon some others by chance. He knows when she hurts, where she hurts. He knows about her weaknesses, knows about her fears. He helps her by reminding her that she doesn't have to be afraid of shadows- he knows she knows that, but she's also told him that she needs to be reminded sometimes, and that she only trusts him for that job.

She’s the most maddening, frustrating, infuriating, exquisite creature in the world. She drives him crazy. His mind is filled with thoughts of her, his heart is flooded with love for her. He appreciates all of his constables and the effort they put into their work. He admires them for how efficient they are, and for how passionately they love the profession they’ve chosen. But he knows she’s the only person he wants to be partners with. No one else would do. He can work with the others, he definitely enjoys doing so, but she’s the only one that can call herself his partner.

He adores her, and he’s never running away from that again.

She’s the person he’s shared the most intimacy with. He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
